


Unwritten Pieces

by fizzyblogic (phizzle)



Series: Trans!Holmes [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Coming Out, Gen, Trans Character, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 10:15:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phizzle/pseuds/fizzyblogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes comes out to Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unwritten Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the vagueness on how Holmes synthesises testosterone; I don't know myself, and waiting to do research was holding up writing any more. I hope you can forgive me for the handwaving.
> 
> For More Joy Day.

There are things John Watson does not put into his memoirs of Sherlock Holmes.

The first is the discovery, upon their running out of a certain chemical, that Holmes will fly into a melancholy rage. He plays his violin late into the night, notes at times frantic, at others slow. It makes Watson's heart sink to hear, and when one of Holmes' contacts brings a bottle to their rooms after two weeks of this, Holmes seizes it with uncharacteristic relief. He shuts himself into his bed-room for hours, emerging back to his usual self.

Watson doesn't ask what the chemical was for. It is not any drug that he knows of, nor one he can think of a practical use for. Holmes takes up another case, which Watson _does_ write about, and the whole incident seems forgotten.

Six months later, Holmes returns to their rooms in disguise as a woman, with a quite convincing bosom. Watson does not look at it, out of habit, but he does wonder how the effect was achieved. He asks, once they're settled at dinner, because Holmes is in such a jolly mood.

"My dear fellow," Holmes replies, "I simply used my natural advantages." He changes the subject to the likely outcome of his solving the case, and Watson does not ask again.

It is three years into their friendship when Holmes requests his absolute discretion on a matter of great importance. "My dear Holmes," Watson exclaims, "have I not proven myself a worthy friend? Have I not demonstrated my discretion upon every occasion?"

"You have," Holmes says, giving him a searching and curious expression. "This is a matter of extreme delicacy. I merely wish to be certain of your secrecy."

"You have it," Watson answers.

"I was ..." Holmes pauses. "I was born with certain ... features which I feel are not my due. The physical attributes which are the usual proclivity of woman alone were given to me, for which I can discern no reason."

"Woman?" Watson stares at him. "Are you saying — you are of the fairer sex? It is unbelievable!"

"I am a man." Visibly agitated, Holmes stands. "I am sure of this fact as I am sure that _you_ are a man. I was born with certain features which would mark me not so, yet they are wrong."

"But this is impossible!" Watson interjects, even as something prickles at the back of his mind.

"There have been cases," Holmes argues. "A medical man such as yourself ought to know that. Throughout history there have been documents of a man later found to have a womb, a woman after death found in possession of that attribute most associated with men."

Watson shifts uncomfortably. "I do recall now," he says, quiet. "There was a case I read about through a friend. A man who, convinced he was a woman, wished for surgery to achieve this. I had forgotten."

"That was a woman," Holmes says, holding Watson's gaze steadily. "A man may be defined by his profession, by his actions. Have we become so base as to define a man by what may lie under his trousers?"

Watson says nothing to this. After a long silence, during which Holmes watches him as though waiting, Watson asks, "Are you an invert? Is there such a thing as an invert woman?"

"I am an invert, though not a woman," Holmes answers, steady. "The whole business does not interest me much, but I find myself drawn to men alone for such things."

"Oh." Watson turns this over in his mind. He attempts to reconcile what he knows of Holmes — brilliant, erratic, eccentric, male — with this new information. _Perhaps this is one of his eccentricities_ , he thinks, and he realises at once that he cannot think of Holmes as a woman. He is a man.

"I told you this," Holmes says, still watching him, "because I wish to ask you for something. If you cannot accept who I am, however, I must leave your acquaintance at once. I trust your discretion remains assured."

"Holmes," Watson exclaims. "No, my dear fellow, there is no need. I — I cannot accept every piece of this just now, yet neither can I think of you as woman. You are, as you say, a man. May I ask — how did you achieve your appearance?"

Holmes sits in his armchair, relaxing into it as he prepares to explain. A familiar sight, Watson is struck by how little the information changes him. "I knew when I was young that I was a boy. Encountering strong arguments against this truth, I examined the facts. First, that my body was not that of a boy. Second, that my mind certainly was. Thus I began my studies. As you know, I have certain interests and forget all information which does not pertain to the solving of criminal problems. I began this interest as a boy, during my readings into history of medicine, while discovering that there were others born like I. The Roman Emperor Elagabalus, according to some historians, asked for surgery to give herself female genitalia, and according to many, named herself the wife of her lover, Hierocles. There are other, less clear cases, merely mentions of a person revealed only after their death to have the genitalia of the sex least expected. To find such mentions requires quite extensive research."

"Indeed," Watson mutters.

"Then too there was my medical research. I undertook horticultural knowledge to my advantage, coupled with my growing knowledge of chemicals as my study of crime progressed, and soon I was experimenting with recreating the hormone testosterone."

"And you were successful?" Watson cries. "Why, that's incredible, man!"

Holmes smiles. "Quite so. It took a good number of years, and led to estrangement from my family, but I care not for them."

"You have in the past mentioned a brother," Watson feels compelled to point out.

"Ah, but you see, he named me so first." There is a fond, exasperated look on Holmes's face, one Watson has not seen before.

"This concoction," he returns to the previous subject, "does it require the chemical you were so frantic about those years ago?"

"It does."

"I see."

Watson sits in thought, turning over all he has heard. He barely notices Holmes getting up to ring the bell and ask Mrs Hudson for some tea. A cup of it is set before him, and lost in his wonderings, he takes it absently.

At last, he has it all ordered in his mind. Sherlock Holmes is a man, one with challenges not faced by many men. Most importantly, Sherlock Holmes is his dearest friend, his constant companion, and the subject of already-confusing feelings which are both more and less confused now that he knows the truth. A thought occurs to him once the rest is settled. He tries to speak, clears his throat, and begins again.

"You said, earlier, that you told me this for a reason. What reason would that be?"

Holmes jolts out of his own thoughts. "You accept me, then?"

"Yes," Watson says.

Holmes relaxes on an exhaled breath. "There is no person in this world I trust more than you, my dear Doctor, and it is your profession which recommends you for this. I wish to ask you whether you would consider performing surgery on me. Is it possible?"

Watson reels slightly. "I would need to study the exact procedures," he says, "but yes, it is possible."

"Would you do this?" Holmes watches him closely, and never before has it felt more like he is some specimen or stained cloth the man is trying to scrutinise.

Watson needs think only for a moment to know the answer. "Yes, my friend. If you wish it, I will."

Holmes stands, closes the distance in a few strides, and embraces him roughly. "My dear friend — John — you cannot know what this means to me."

Watson returns the embrace, surprised beyond all reason. Holmes isn't emotional, as a rule, though Watson finds he can understand why this subject would arouse in him passion unlike himself. "I am your humble servant," he murmurs, "in all things."

Holmes breaks the embrace, beaming as he only does when a case is drawing to its close. "My dear friend," he repeats. "My dear friend."


End file.
